Page 24 - Frankenstein

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father,
Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot
my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I
welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval
continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune in being permitted to
come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily believe,” said he, “how great was the difficulty to persuade my father
that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of bookkeeping; and, indeed, I believe I left
him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the
Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield:—‘I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat
heartily without Greek.’ But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has
permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge.”

“It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.”

“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to
lecture you a little upon their account myself.—But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping short and
gazing full in my face, “I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you
had been watching for several nights.”

“You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation that I have not allowed
myself sufficient rest, as you see: but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end,
and that I am at length free.”

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the
preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the
thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive, and
walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating
him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My
hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold shivering came
over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand
in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty;
and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune
could have befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for
joy, and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It
was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat
rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my
hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival; but when he
observed me more attentively he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account; and my loud,
unrestrained, heartless laughter, frightened and astonished him.

“My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you
are! What is the cause of all this?”

“Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into
the room; “he can tell.—Oh, save me! save me!” I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously,
and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely
turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my senses for

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